


17. Perspective

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Twinkstober 2020 [17]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming In Pants, Depression, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Frottage, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Apologies, Goat Parent Eskel (The Witcher), Good Friend Eskel (The Witcher), Hand Jobs, Heartache, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kinktober, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Reconciliation, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Twinktober 2020Prompt: perspectiveEskel helps Geralt realise some things.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Twinkstober 2020 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923553
Comments: 30
Kudos: 402





	17. Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, another way too long fic, no problem at all. -.-
> 
> Anyway, this challenge is gonna stick around for a while, I guess. Now it's Hurt the Bard Hours, because it's _always_ Hurt the Bard Hours.

The winter after the mountain, Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen in an unusually bad mood. Ever since that disaster, he's seen neither hide nor hair of Jaskier, and, more importantly, hasn't _heard_ either from or of him. It's like the bard has vanished into thin air.

Geralt isn't generally all that in touch with his emotions (because Witchers don't have them) but he'd regretted the things he said to, or rather yelled at, Jaskier almost immediately. By the time his temper had cooled, however, Jaskier had been gone, and nobody could - or would - tell him where he'd gone.

Yarpen Zigrin had shot him a look that managed to be both smug and pitying, and Geralt ground his teeth and tried to follow the faint traces of Jaskier's scent. He lost it, finally, back in Caingorn, the press of unwashed humans too overpowering to pick out a single scent that was days old already.

And so he'd collected Roach from the stable and went back on the Path, back to how things were before, except now there was a bard shaped hole by his side that he refused to acknowledge.

The odd thing was that Jaskier really seemed to have disappeared completely. Before, he'd hear stories about him occasionally when they weren't traveling together, usually about his latest romantic dalliances or the resulting scandals, and always his music.

Now there's nothing.

Geralt doesn't want to think about it, but about a week out of Caingorn it crawls up out of the depths of his mind and refuses to leave again - what if Jaskier is dead?

He's so blindsided by the thought that he rides straight into a ghoul nest, and it's only dumb luck that Roach isn't hurt.

Jaskier _can't_ be dead. He knows it'll happen eventually, the man is just human after all, but not like this, whatever this is. Not after the things Geralt said to him, not before he can try and make things right.

Winter draws closer, and Geralt turns to Kaedwen, somewhat reluctantly. He misses Kaer Morhen, misses his brothers, but.

But.

Vesemir doesn't mention his sour mood, even though he definitely notices. The man is the closest thing Geralt has to a father, but he gives him his space and doesn't mention it. Probably he's waiting for Geralt to come to him, which. Is _not_ going to happen.

Lambert is too busy being a dick and talking about that Cat Witcher of his to really pay attention to Geralt, which suits him just fine. Lambert is really the last person Geralt would want to talk to about this.

And then there's Eskel.

Eskel, being the perceptive son of a bitch that he is, notices, of course. The man has known him their whole lives, more or less. Ninety years out of almost a hundred counts as a whole life in Geralt's book, anyway.

In any case, Eskel notices. And of course he asks him about it, because Eskel can never leave well enough alone.

"Anything interesting happen to you this year," he asks a couple of days after they've all arrived, while they're patching one of the many holes in one of the roofs.

"Hm," Geralt says, because he really doesn't want to talk about any of it. "Not really."

Eskel gives him a look. "You're not being inconspicuous, you know that, right?" He nods in the direction of the keep. "Even Lambert noticed something's off about you."

"I don't want to talk about it."

The other snorts. "There's a surprise." They work in silence for a while, then Eskel asks, tone neutral, "How's Jaskier?"

Geralt stills. Breathes. If he doesn't, he might shove Eskel off the roof. "Don't know," he grits at length.

"So I take it whatever didn't happen also didn't involve Jaskier."

"Hn."

"You know you can tell me, right?" Eskel doesn't look at him when he says it, and somehow that makes it easier.

"I... I yelled at him. I was... angry, and cruel, and tried to hurt him." He looks down at the hammer in his hand. "Worked."

"He left." It's not a question, but Geralt nods anyway. "What did you say to him?"

Geralt tells him, and Eskel sucks in air through his teeth.

"Well, that's. Harsh." He grimaces. "No surprise he legged it after that. Especially since-"

He cuts himself off, and Geralt looks up at him sharply. "Especially since, what?"

The smile on Eskel's face is full of pity. "Don't tell me you don't know." Geralt raises a shoulder because no, he _doesn't_ know. Doesn't have a clue what the fuck Eskel is talking about. Eskel sighs. "You are one dumb fuck, you know that? The boy is in love with you, Geralt."

What.

"No, he's not," Geralt says roughly, and Eskel actually laughs at that.

"You're really so much worse with this than I thought. How long have you known him? Twenty odd years? He's been practically attached to your apron strings since he was just old enough to grow some hair on his chest, do you think he did that because of your _riveting_ conversation skills?"

Geralt stares unseeingly at the tiles before him. It's not true.

"I met him once, Geralt, remember? He was _ecstatic_ hearing more about you from someone who knows you, and when you showed up, he looked at you like you hung the moon in the sky."

"Not true," he grits out, and Eskel huffs.

"You can deny it all you want, but if he left you after all this time, it's because you really hurt him. Broke his heart, I'd say."

Geralt puts down his hammer and climbs off of the roof, because if he doesn't, he'll do something stupid like throw the hammer or punch Eskel. Possibly both. Eskel lets him go and doesn't bring it up again, which Geralt appreciates, but he's put the idea in his head.

Jaskier. In love with him.

He lays in bed and stares at the ceiling, turning the thought over in his head. It would explain... _a lot_ , actually. He knows Jaskier is free with his affection, has had more lovers than Geralt would care to count over the years, but there are few constants in his life. The Countess de Stael was one for many years, before she found someone new (someone younger) to heap her attention on.

Other than that... Well. Geralt would be hard pressed to name someone.

Someone who isn't him, anyway.

Fuck. Twenty-two years, and he never noticed.

When spring arrives, he and Eskel ride out together, down into Ard Carraigh to stock up on supplies, and before they part ways, Eskel draws him into their customary embrace. Foreheads pressed together, he squeezes Geralt's neck and says, "Don't be an idiot, Geralt. Go find him," and then he leaves Geralt standing there in the market place, wrestling with the emotion in his chest.

It would be easy not to, he thinks. Turn south, go to Lyria or Toussaint maybe. Ignore. He's good at that.

He doesn't go south. Instead he thinks about something Jaskier asked him, up on the mountain, about going to the coast with him, and he turns Roach towards Redania.

As good a place to start as any, he supposes.

Redania is just as miserable as he remembers. A very wet place, for lack of a better word. When he reaches the coast, he realises just how foolish his plan really is, but, well. He's here now. He can ask around.

No one has seen the bard Jaskier, turns out, not down the whole damn stretch of the Redanian coast. It's infuriating, and the thought that maybe Jaskier is dead after all crawls into his gut and settles there, cold and bitter.

He takes on a contract for a griffin, and spends four days holed up in a brothel, drunk out of his mind before he can face the idea again.

It _hurts_ , he realises. The thought that he'll never see Jaskier again, will never hear him sing or laugh or argue... It hurts like a knife to the gut.

He continues down the coast, in a black mood now more often than not. It's in a tavern near Lettenhove where he hears of the contract.

"The Viscount's son, you see. Lovely man, really, and so handsome, but he came back from his travels and his lordship thinks he might be possessed! Gripped by a strange melancholy, it's said."

It's not Jaskier, he tells himself. Can't be. Jaskier is just a traveling bard, not a Viscount's son.

He travels to Lettenhove anyway.

The de Lettenhove estate is sprawling, with well-tended gardens and a water fountain out front. Geralt is pretty sure he spots a peacock around the corner of a hedge.

"I'm a Witcher," he tells the footman who opens the door, "here about his lordship's son."

He's led into a parlour and told to wait. Bafflingly, no one stays behind to make sure he doesn't steal anything, which is. Odd. When the Viscount arrives, he's downright cordial.

"Julian was travelling, you see, and came back in a right state. Wouldn't tell us what was wrong. We're very worried."

"What makes you think he's possessed?"

The Viscount shrugs. "He's just... so fundamentally _different_. Not himself at all."

Geralt agrees to talk to the man, and the Viscount looks so fucking relieved, Geralt feels almost guilty. It doesn't sound like a possession to him, just good old-fashioned melancholy that would be better treated by a healer or mage, not a Witcher. He follows him anyway, up the stairs into the family wing, where the Viscount knocks on a door.

"Julian? Can I come in? There's someone here to see you."

There's a thump from inside the room, like someone knocked a book to the floor, then a non-committal grunt. The Viscount shrugs and gives him an apologetic smile, then opens the door.

It's almost dark, the curtains drawn over the big windows, the room in twilight. Geralt steps inside first - maybe it is a possession after all, and if this Julian attacks, better it be him and not the Viscount - and sucks in a breath.

"Jaskier?"

For it is Jaskier, who now shoots up to a sitting position, staring at him with wide bloodshot eyes, his hair a floppy mess around his face. "G- Geralt?"

The Viscount is looking back and forth between them, obviously confused. "You two... know each other?"

"Yes," Geralt says, at the same time that Jaskier scoffs, "Hardly," and the following silence is decidedly awkward. Then Jaskier shifts around on the bed, throwing off the blanket, and swings his legs over the edge. "Father, would you give us a moment? I need to speak to the Witcher."

_The Witcher._

Geralt pretends that being called that by Jaskier doesn't cut him to the quick, when it very much does.

"I..." The Viscount hesitates a second longer, but the look Jaskier sends him seems to be enough to convince him. "I'll be downstairs, sir Witcher," he says, and then he leaves, the door shutting behind Geralt with an ominous click.

Jaskier sits at the edge of the bed, hands fisted around the corner of the mattress. He's looking at Geralt's boots, he thinks. The room smells stale, like it hasn't been aired out in a while. Jaskier smells... Well, ripe would be putting it kindly. He probably hasn't bathed in weeks.

That's the most jarring part of all of this to Geralt. He's used to Jaskier smelling like bathing oils and perfume, even when they had to go without proper baths for longer stretches of time. He'd still be meticulous about keeping clean, washing up in cold streams, teeth chattering and his skin prickling. Now... Now he looks like he's just waiting to die.

"How did you find me?" He still doesn't look up at Geralt, and Geralt in turn can't _stop_ looking. Jaskier is wearing a nightshirt that has, quite frankly, seen better days. There are stains on the front, wine and food, and on the sleeves, ink. It's sliding off of one shoulder. Jaskier doesn't seem to notice or, if he does, care.

"I- Went all the way down the coast. Thought you might be there somewhere."

"Why'd you think that?"

"Because that's where you asked me to go."

Jaskier looks up sharply at that, meeting his eyes. His face twists painfully and he looks away again, with a grotesque smile. "So you _do_ listen when I talk. Imagine that."

"Jaskier," he says, arms hanging helplessly by his sides. He wants to cross the room, wants to embrace Jaskier. The relief he feels at seeing the other alive almost overshadows the concern he has, considering the state he's in. "What happened to you?"

Jaskier barks a laugh, bitter and entirely devoid of humour. "What happened to me? _You_ happened, Geralt of fucking Rivia." Now he looks at him again, and his eyes are glistening wetly. "You happened."

"I'm sorry," he says, because really, what else can he say? Jaskier shakes his head.

"Not as sorry as I am."

"Your- Your father thinks you're possessed."

Again, he laughs. "Wouldn't that come in handy? Explain away the state I'm in by way of some nice ghostly possession, have the thing exorcised and be done with it. Have the old Julian back and maybe he'll finally settle down and marry and produce a couple of heirs." He smiles bitterly. "I'm afraid that ship sailed a long time ago."

"Jaskier," he starts, but the other shakes his head.

"Please leave, Geralt. Just... leave me alone," Jaskier says, and then he flops back onto the bed, pulling his legs up after him and curling into a ball, back to Geralt.

He should do it. Should leave, right now. He has caused Jaskier enough pain, enough distress.

Instead he says, "I thought you were dead."

Jaskier pulls up his shoulders at that, and Geralt can smell the salty tang of tears. "Go away," he says.

"I had to know," Geralt replies instead, "had to make sure."

The bard shoots up again, rounding on him. "I said, go away! I don't _care_!" He grabs a pillow and throws it as hard as he can at Geralt. It bounces off of his chest harmlessly. "I don't want to hear about your fucking guilty conscience or whatever the fuck makes you think you have _any_ right to come here!" There are fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and he looks half mad.

"I want to make it right," he says, and Jaskier snarls.

"You can't! I don't _want_ you to!" He's shaking, Geralt notices. "I gave you half my _life_ , Geralt! Two decades! And you-" He cuts himself off, chest heaving. "Just go away." He sinks back onto the mattress, pulls a pillow over his head. Then he starts sobbing, and Geralt makes a decision.

He's across the room in three strides, and he sits down gingerly beside Jaskier's shaking form. "Jaskier," he says gently, and Jaskier cries harder.

"Why can't you ever do as I ask," he sobs, and Geralt doesn't have an answer to that.

"Let me make it right," he says instead. _Please_ , he doesn't say.

"How can you think that you could?" Jaskier pushes the pillow off his face and looks up at Geralt. It's painful to look at, knowing that he caused this anguish. His cheeks are red and splotchy, his entire face wet with tears and snot. "You said I was the worst thing that ever happened to you, that I was the source of all your problems. How could you _possibly_ make that right?"

"I don't know." He looks down at his hands. "I didn't mean any of it, if that helps."

Jaskier snorts. "Not really."

"I... I regretted it. Once you and Yen left, I... I regretted all of it. Went looking for you."

Jaskier has gone very still. He's looking up at him with wide watery eyes.

"Tracked you down to Caingorn but I lost your scent there."

"I came here," Jaskier says quietly. "Straight away." After a pause, he asks, "Why did you come here now?"

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment. _Just get it out of the way_. "Eskel said you're in love with me."

The room is silent, except for the ticking of a clock and the thunderous beat of Jaskier's heart, and then the bard starts laughing.

Geralt stares down at him, baffled, and Jaskier just keeps laughing and laughing and laughing. When he finally calms down, he runs a hand through his hair, making a face when it comes away oily.

"I always thought you just didn't want to acknowledge it. Talk to me about it." He gives him a grin. It looks pained around the edges. "I didn't think you really had no idea."

"I wouldn't have said those things to you if I had known."

Jaskier gives him an odd look. "Wouldn't you?"

 _Maybe_. "I hope I wouldn't have."

Jaskier snorts again. "That's something."

"Are you," Geralt asks, because he needs him to say it, and Jaskier goes still and silent for a long moment, just watching him.

Then he says, "I think I've been in love with you from the moment I met you. You made it really fucking hard to love you sometimes, but I'm nothing if not persistent."

Now it's Geralt's turn to snort. "That's one word for it."

Jaskier reaches up and smacks him on the arm, and there's a tiny glimmer of hope in Geralt's chest, hope that maybe this thing between them isn't beyond saving.

Then Jaskier lifts his arm and smells himself, making a face. "Ugh, I really am disgusting, aren't I? I can't remember the last time I washed, how do you even stand it?"

"Because it's you," he says before he's given his mouth permission, and Jaskier's face goes soft.

Despite Jaskier's insistence that he's fine and can clean himself up, Geralt goes and finds the Viscount. "Ja- Julian would like a bath," he says, and the man's face lights up in delight. The expression is so similar to Jaskier's that he has to bite back a smile.

The bath is to be prepared in a special room, he's told, and when he goes back to Jaskier's room, he asks, "Why exactly did you spend the last twenty years as a starving artist if you have this," he waves a hand around, "at your disposal?"

Jaskier has shrugged off the really quite revolting nightshirt and is sitting at a little vanity in his smallclothes, dragging a brush through his hair. "Because all of this comes with strings attached. Mind, I love my parents, they're pretty great compared to other noble parents, but they still have expectations. Me going to Oxenfurt in the first place was a compromise. They weren't happy when I ran off immediately after graduating." He makes a face and puts the brush down on the vanity. "Besides," he says, looking at Geralt through the mirror, "my muse wasn't in Lettenhove."

They just look at each other for a long moment, until there's a knock at the door. "The bath would be ready for you, Master Julian," comes a woman's voice.

Geralt raises an eyebrow. "Master Julian?"

"Oh, shut up," Jaskier says, but he's ducking his head to hide a smile.

He watches Jaskier shrug on a silken robe, and asks, "Want me to help you?"

Jaskier hesitates for a long moment, studying Geralt. What he's looking for, Geralt has no idea. Finally he nods. "Sure, why not."

The bathroom is just down the stairs. It's a bit like a public bath, Geralt supposes, with a tiled pool set into the floor. The air is humid and heavy, and Jaskier drops the robe on a chair. Geralt unbuckles his armour to give himself ease of movement, but he stops when Jaskier says, "You can bathe, too, if you want." He's very determinedly not looking in Geralt's direction, instead busying himself with the soaps and oils laid out beneath a small window.

Geralt... doesn't know what to say to that. Finally he settles on, "If you're alright with that."

Jaskier snorts. "I honestly don't care either way," he says as he arranges a flagon of oil and two bars of soap by the edge of the pool. "I know how much you like baths, and quite frankly you too could use one." He straightens again. "Consider it a gift," he says and bares his teeth in what is probably supposed to be a smile. It makes Geralt's jaw ache to look at.

Then Jaskier unlaces his smalls, lets them drop to the floor, and glides into the steaming water with a hiss. Geralt stands there a moment longer, warring with himself. A bath sounds... amazing, especially one of these, but...

"I don't want to impose."

Jaskier barks a laugh and gives him a wry look. "Are you suddenly picking up some manners in your old age? Consider me shocked." He leans back against the edge of the pool and closes his eyes. The hair on the back of his neck is long enough now that it floats in the water. "Just get in, Geralt. Don't make this even more awkward."

Geralt undresses, piling his armour in a corner. Jaskier is right - it _is_ awkward, somehow. They've seen each other naked hundreds of times over the years and Geralt generally isn't shy about it, but now? Now he feels watched, even though Jaskier still has his eyes closed.

Sliding into the water feels heavenly. He hadn't realised just how tense he was, and he relaxes against the side. Watches Jaskier.

Jaskier just sits there, head tipped back and eyes closed, his arms floating by his sides. He looks like he's waiting for something, and Geralt says, like a fool, "I missed you."

Whatever reaction he expected, he doesn't get it. Jaskier just stays sitting the way he is, eyes closed. His lips tilt up a fraction. "Sure you did."

Geralt grunts. "Would I be here if I didn't?"

Now Jaskier does look at him. There's something pinched about his face. "I don't know, Geralt. I don't know how you'd behave, since apparently everything I thought I knew about you," he takes a deep breath, "about us, turned out to be wrong." He looks away, at the mosaics along the sides of the pool. "I thought we were friends, but the mountain finally cured me of that misconception."

"You are my friend," Geralt says, trying to keep the rising frustration out of his voice.

Jaskier laughs bitterly. "Am I? I thought you didn't _have_ friends. Certainly not ones who do nothing but shovel shit to make your life more difficult."

"Damn it, Jaskier," he starts, but the look on Jaskier's face stops him dead. He's smiling, but it's a close-lipped smile that tugs painfully at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are wet again.

"And there he is, the Geralt that I know," he says quietly.

 _Fuck_.

He should just... leave, now. Give Jaskier the peace and distance he so obviously wants from him. "I should go," he says roughly, and Jaskier cocks his head to the side.

"Yes, go. Leave. That's what you're _good_ at, isn't it? Leaving me?" The words are designed to hurt, but the way Jaskier says them, quietly and with a gut-wrenching heaviness, hurts much more. "It says a lot about me that it took so long for you to actually drive me away, doesn't it?" He chuckles. "Guess I really am as stupid as people always say I am."

"You're not stupid." He's not, he really isn't. Annoying and clingy and too loud and... _a lot_ , yes, but not stupid.

"Then what do you call pining for twenty years after someone who barely treats you better than his fucking _horse_? Sounds pretty stupid to me."

The thing is, Jaskier is right. He treated him horribly a lot of the time. Took him for granted, all while profiting off of his hard work and efforts.

"Anyway," Jaskier says with false cheerfulness as he sits up and reaches for one of the soaps, "it would be horribly discourteous of me to kick you out before you finish your bath, so." He tosses the soap in Geralt's direction, barely looking. Geralt plucks it out of the air, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. "Show-off." Then he takes a deep breath and sinks beneath the water.

Geralt stares at the spot where Jaskier is, watches tiny bubbles rise to the surface. He's been thrown out of places enough times that he should be indifferent to it. He's a Witcher, people don't want him around.

Jaskier used to want him around.

He grinds his teeth and grips the soap tightly as Jaskier resurfaces with a gasp. His hair hangs into his eyes and he scrubs at his face with his hands. Geralt closes his eyes and sinks beneath the water himself, lets himself float for a moment. He can hear Jaskier moving around, probably to get his own soap.

It's all so fucking awkward. Coming here was a mistake.

Geralt resurfaces and lathers up his soap without looking at Jaskier again, then works the suds into his hair, rather aggressively. It doesn't take long before he can hear Jaskier wince, but when he looks over, the other has his back to him and is gently soaping up his own hair.

Jaskier used to wash his hair for him. He'd gently untangle each strand, massage his scalp, treat him to softly scented oils.

Geralt wasn't aware that you can miss someone who is barely five feet away from you.

He puts the soap down and sinks beneath the water again, rinsing it out. He feels... raw, like an exposed nerve, and if Jaskier won't talk to him...

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, after he is above the water again. Jaskier looks back at him over his shoulders; there are soap suds running down his back. "Thank you... for the bath."

Jaskier smiles, softly, gently, almost the way he used to smile at him. "See you around, Geralt," he says, and then he turns away from him again and continues to wash himself.

Geralt pulls himself out of the pool, dries off perfunctorily, grabs his clothes and almost, almost runs from the house.

* * *

Four years later, Geralt is in Oxenfurt on a contract. A werewolf, apparently unaware of what it is, living in the city and causing havoc.

He should have known that if he were to run into Jaskier somewhere, it would be here.

Geralt spots him across the marketplace, in a pretty, dark blue doublet. It's much too subdued for him, in Geralt's opinion. He looks much the same, otherwise, at least from a distance.

He shouldn't. He _really_ shouldn't.

Geralt pulls up his hood and draws closer, until there are merely a few stalls separating them. There is some silver in Jaskier's hair, he realises with a start, more lines around his eyes than there had been.

There's a woman by his side, a woman he turns to and smiles at gently, and Geralt feels... _something_. He doesn't know what it is, but he doesn't like it. The woman is small and young, round-cheeked and plain looking. She shows Jaskier a bolt of fabric, then another, and when Jaskier picks one and looks up to tell the merchant as much, he sees Geralt looking at him.

 _Fuck_.

For a brief second, Jaskier's eyes widen and something passes over his face, and Geralt turns away. Fuck, _fuck_ , he should've turned around the second he saw him, what's _wrong_ with him-

"Geralt," Jaskier says, just loud enough for him to hear, and then, "excuse me, my dear, I just saw an old friend, I'll be right back, alright?"

_An old friend._

That's all it takes to root Geralt to the spot. He turns and looks up, and Jaskier is walking towards him, expression neutral but friendly. It tugs at something in Geralt's chest.

"Fancy seeing you here," Jaskier begins. He's rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, a nervous habit Geralt is almost sure he's unaware of. "Contract bring you to town?"

"Hm." This close, it's clearer that Jaskier has aged. There aren't just lines around his eyes, but around his mouth, too. One between his brows. Geralt wants to-

Geralt _wants_.

"Ah. Werewolf, is it?" At Geralt's nod, he looks almost pleased. "Thought as much." He looks Geralt up and down for a second. "How... How have things been for you?"

"Found my Child Surprise."

"Oh, right! Cintra, hm. That's good! Not, not about _Cintra_ , obviously, but- You know what I mean." He scrunches his nose. "A girl, was it? Cirilla?"

"Ciri. She's at Kaer Morhen. Training."

Again, something passes over Jaskier's face, but now it looks... bitter, almost, and Geralt realises he never took Jaskier to Kaer Morhen. "That's good," he says.

"Who's she," Geralt asks, nodding in the direction of the woman, who is still waiting by the fabric merchant's stall. She's watching them with a displeased frown.

Jaskier looks back at her over his shoulder and smiles. "My student, Sybilla. I'm a private tutor now, you know."

The strange emotion he had felt upon seeing Jaskier and this Sybilla side by side dissipates. "Hm."

"Will you be in town long? Full moon's tomorrow, isn't it?"

"I- Yes. I'm camping outside the city."

Jaskier's eyes widen, and the indignation on his face is so achingly familiar. "No, no, that won't do. You can stay with me, I have a house here."

Geralt thinks he should object. He doesn't understand why Jaskier is offering this to him. "I don't want to impose."

"Nonsense," Jaskier laughs. "It's a big house, I could do with some company."

Of course he agrees.

Jaskier tells him the address and to be there around sundown, and when he bids Geralt adieu, his eyes crinkle softly. Geralt watches him go back over to Sybilla, who asks about him, and Jaskier offers her his arm. "That, sweet girl, was the famous White Wolf." Geralt just catches her gasp of shock before the pair rounds a corner and disappears.

He takes a breath, then heads down to the harbour for supplies.

Jaskier's house is one of those narrow but tall town buildings that make Geralt feel slightly claustrophobic, but it looks out over the water and is away from the hubbub of the taverns and inns. When he knocks on the door, he is greeted by an elderly woman who squints up at him suspiciously in the falling darkness.

"Master Julian is occupied," she says and attempts to shut the door in his face, but then there's a clatter and a bang from inside the house and Jaskier appears around a corner, looking disheveled. He's in his shirtsleeves and his hair is practically on end.

"Ah, Geralt, there you are. It's fine, Ewa, I've been expecting him."

"You have?" She gives Geralt a dubious look but opens the door wider anyway.

"Say hello to the White Wolf," Jaskier says with a grin, and Ewa's eyebrows rise onto her forehead.

"That's the White Wolf?" Another one of those assessing looks, then she says, "Thought you'd be taller."

Geralt smirks down at her. She barely reaches his chest with the top of her head. "Sorry to disappoint."

Behind her, Jaskier snorts. "You can go, Ewa, we can handle things from here." He pulls a small bundle, wrapped in cloth, out of a cupboard beside the door. "For Stefan, I want him to take his time with these. They're a bit more difficult than the last ones."

Ewa takes the bundle - books, apparently - and, with a last look at Geralt, tells Jaskier goodnight and leaves out the back.

"Where's Roach," Jaskier asks after the door has closed behind her, and holds his hands out. It takes Geralt a moment to realise he wants to take his cloak.

"Stabled her." He turns and unclasps his cloak, and Jaskier tugs it off of him and puts it away. Then he walks deeper into the house, obviously expecting Geralt to follow. He drops his pack beside the door, and does.

"I'm sure she appreciates it. She must be getting on in years," Jaskier murmurs as he sinks down into a plush armchair by a fireplace, and Geralt stops in the doorway, watching for a moment.

It looks... homey. Domestic. Jaskier fits right in, with his tousled hair and the way his shirt hangs slightly open at the neck, the wide sleeves billowing. It's almost like a painting.

Geralt feels out of place. Maybe this was a mistake. Jaskier has obviously made a good life for himself, associating with Geralt again is sure to cause trouble-

"I can hear you thinking," the man says, amusement lacing his voice, and he sits up and reaches for a wine bottle. "Drink with me?"

It's a bottle of Erveluce, Geralt notes with some surprise as he sits in another armchair, facing Jaskier. "So I take it being a private tutor makes good coin?"

Jaskier looks down at the bottle in his hand, then chuckles. "Oh, I wish. No, all of this," he waves the bottle around the room, "belongs to the de Lettenhove estate." He makes a face. "I have an _allowance_ , for crying out loud, like a child."

"But you seem content," Geralt says, because it's true. Jaskier seems... more subdued than he'd been, but there's a calm about him.

"I suppose so." Jaskier pours for them both and hands one glass to Geralt. "My parents finally accepted that I won't ever be the heir they wanted, won't get married or have children. Once that happened, it became easier. It's a comfortable life, at least." He swirls the wine around his glass, watching. "And isn't that a gift these days? I'm not a young man any more, there's war everywhere, what more could I want than to be _content_?"

He looks up at Geralt over the rim of his glass, and Geralt is hit by a wave of regret so strong it almost makes him sick. "Jaskier..."

"I've thought about it a lot the last couple of years, you know? About us. About... missed opportunities." He takes a sip of his wine. It stains his lips cherry red. "I thought that maybe I'd come to regret the time spent with you. Turns out _that_ never happened."

Geralt takes a sip of his wine, to escape the intense look in Jaskier's eyes. He feels exposed by it.

"What about you," he asks softly, eyes unblinking. "Do you regret it?"

It's such a loaded question. So many layers to it, but there's really only one answer. "The only thing I regret is driving you away."

Jaskier smiles softly, takes another drink. "That's nice to hear."

Nice. _Right_.

"I wish I could undo it," Geralt says, "take it all back." _Treat you better,_ he doesn't say.

"Hm. If wishes were horses," Jaskier murmurs, then takes another sip. His glass is half empty by now. "I would have stayed if you'd had asked," he says quietly, "regardless of what you said before. I was so in-" He cuts himself off and looks away, into the fire. Swallows thickly.

_I was so in-_

_So in love with you_.

"Jaskier," he says. His voice trembles.

"It's too late now," Jaskier says softly.

"It doesn't have to be," Geralt protests, and Jaskier chuckles. "You could come with me again."

Jaskier looks at him. His cheeks are flushed. "I don't need your pity, Geralt, nor do I want it."

"It's not pity."

"Isn't it? What, then? Do you actually want me back with you?"

"Yes." He surprises himself with the intensity of it. Jaskier, too, apparently, judging by the way his eyes widen.

"You're actually serious."

"I am."

"Huh."

Geralt can feel his heart thumping against his ribs. It's an odd feeling.

"What about Yennefer?"

Ah. _Fuck_.

"She's... around," he hedges, and Jaskier's lips twitch. "She's teaching Ciri. Magic."

"Oh," Jaskier says. "That's... good, I guess." He sucks on his teeth for a moment. "So Ciri is strong, I take it. She's, what, fifteen?" Geralt nods, and Jaskier hums. "Yeah, she'd need a woman in her life, not just you morons," and the fondness in his voice makes Geralt's chest feel oddly tight.

"Come with me," he says, too quickly, "you can meet her. Come to Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier looks at him silently, for a long time. Then he asks, "Why?"

Geralt swallows. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. "Because I miss you."

"And?"

And, what?

"I don't know what you want me to say, Jaskier. I made a mistake. I should never have said those things to you, and I'm sorry. I just..." He rubs a hand over his face, frustration boiling in his gut. "I miss you," he finally says, hand covering his eyes, and if he didn't know better, he'd think the stinging in them were tears.

Jaskier doesn't say anything. He takes another sip of his wine, then sets the glass down on the table beside his chair. Geralt can hear him moving, can hear the brush of his clothes against the fabric of the chair, the soles of his boots against the rug as he gets to his feet.

Then there's his hand, softly stroking over Geralt's hair, and he breathes, shudders.

"I want to," Jaskier says quietly. "Gods be good, I _want_ to." He reaches down and tucks a lock of hair behind Geralt's ear. "But I don't know if I can."

Geralt looks up at him then. Jaskier's cheeks are flushed, his lips red from the wine. He can't decipher the look in his eyes.

"I can't go back to how things were, Geralt. I'm not that person any more."

"I know that."

"Do you," he asks softly, but there's no venom to his voice.

Then he leans down, and kisses Geralt.

Everything grinds to a halt. Geralt doesn't dare move for a long moment, afraid that he'll wake up from whatever kind of dream this is. Then Jaskier slides his fingers into his hair and hums against his lips, and Geralt reaches up and winds his arms around his waist, and Jaskier lets himself be pulled down into his lap.

He knows every line of Jaskier's body, from living so close together for so many years, from having to carry him out of danger more than once. He knows Jaskier has grown softer since he last saw him, both from the change to a more sedentary life and from age, although his waist is still slim, his thighs still strong. He's still handsome, can probably still charm his way into nearly every bed he pleases.

When Jaskier leans back, Geralt tips forward, chases after him without realising until Jaskier puts a gentle hand on his chest. "I will think about it," he says, then he slides off Geralt's lap. "Come, I'll show you your room."

Geralt follows in a bit of a daze. The room is on the first floor, to the back of the house. It's cozy, with a four-poster bed and an ornately decorated fireplace.

Jaskier brings him a bucket of water and some bread and cheese, watches him for a moment. "I'm very tired," he says quietly. "You can go out the back tomorrow, that door can stay unlocked."

Geralt tries hard to not let that feel like a dismissal. He's almost successful.

"Good night, Geralt," Jaskier says, and then he closes the door behind him.

He barely sleeps a wink that night. He can still taste Jaskier, can smell him on his clothes. _Fuck_.

The next morning he wakes to a silent house, groggy and already in a bad mood. He can hear Jaskier's sleep-slow heartbeat through the walls and nothing else, and he goes slow getting ready.

He doesn't know if Jaskier wants him to come back, and he wants to stay so badly, he soaks up every little thing about him that he can for as long as he can.

When he comes downstairs, there is a plate with more bread, cheese and fruit on a table in the kitchen, and a note that directs him to a cold storage where he finds ham. He feels... warm, thinking about the care Jaskier put into making sure he'd get something to eat before he left.

When he's just going out the back, Ewa walks into the courtyard, a basket on her arm and a scowl on her face. She doesn't particularly like him, he's sure.

"Sneaking out like a thief, are ya?" She narrows her pale eyes at him, and he has to hide a smile.

"I'm here on a job. Jas- Julian knows."

"Does he now?" She gives him another long look. Then she says, "He's not playing any more, you know?"

What.

"His tutoring aside, he hasn't picked up an instrument in years."

"That can't be true."

Ewa barks a laugh. "Oh, it's true alright, dearie." She gives him another shrewd look. "A broken heart'll do that to a man." Then she shoulders past him and has disappeared into the house before he can think of a reply.

The woman's words stay with Geralt all day. He should really be concentrating on preparing for the Werewolf. Instead he thinks. Mostly in circles, too.

Serves him right that the bastard gets him with his claws.

For a brief, shining moment, he considers going back to Jaskier's house. Let himself bask in the care the man would hopefully bestow upon him.

Instead, he downs a bottle of Swallow, bandages his leg, and makes his way back into the city. He sneaks into Roach's stall at the stable and drops into the straw beside her, and it doesn't take long before he falls into restless sleep.

It's lighter when he's awoken by a voice outside the stall. "Should've known you'd come here. Would've saved me a lot of time running around the city asking the guards at every gate if they'd seen you."

Jaskier is leaning on the stall door, hand pillowed on one hand as he watches Geralt. Roach is snuffling at his hair.

"What are you doing here," Geralt asks, and Jaskier smiles a little.

"You didn't come back to the house. I was worried." He shrugs one shoulder, then nods at Geralt's leg. "Did you even clean that before wrapping it up?"

"It's fine," he grunts, biting back a groan when he tenses and fire licks up his thigh. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Just how I thought." He opens the stall door and holds out a hand. "Come on, then." Geralt stares at the outstretched hand for a long moment, like an idiot, and Jaskier clears his throat. That spurs him into motion, and he rises with a wince. As Jaskier picks up his pack and walks out of the stable, he murmurs, "Some things just don't change."

Back at the house, Jaskier disappears into the kitchen to set water to boiling, waving Geralt into the sitting room.

"Get those boots and pants off for me, will you? You know the drill."

He does indeed, and when Jaskier returns with the hot water, towels and a jar of salve, he tsks in disapproval at the messy bandages and sets to work.

Geralt takes a very deep, deliberate breath. It feels almost the way it used to, back on the Path, with Jaskier's slender fingers cleaning the wound gently, applying the salve. The lines of silver in Jaskier's hair glint in the fire light when he tilts his head, and it hits Geralt all of a sudden that the man doesn't have much time left.

And so he asks again, "Come with me," voice rough with emotion, and again Jaskier replies, "I'll think about it." He helps Geralt up the stairs to his room, and when he turns away after letting the Witcher drop onto the bed, Geralt catches his hand.

" _Jaskier_ ," he says, pleads, almost, and Jaskier smiles gently, leans down, and presses a kiss to his lips, a soft, closed-lip thing. Then he slips out of the room, leaving Geralt behind.

Geralt lies back on the bed, rolls onto his side, and tries - and fails, mostly - to sleep.

The next morning, he wakes to clattering and voices. Ewa, he recognises, Jaskier, and a man he doesn't know. He can't make out words, not from his spot in the bed, but he doesn't want to get up yet. He wants to linger, because getting up means getting dressed and packed up and leaving.

He doesn't want to leave Jaskier.

When he finally drags himself out of bed and out of the room, he thinks for a moment that there must have been a robbery. The whole house is in chaos, and he hurries down into the kitchen, where he finds Jaskier and Ewa, arguing. The man, whoever it was, has left, apparently.

"What, he shows up out of the blue and you're just gonna drop everything like some blushing maiden? You're a grown man, shouldn't you be beyond that romantic nonsense?" Ewa has her back to the door, to him, and Jaskier's lips curl into a small smile when he sees Geralt. Ewa stills, then sighs. "He's right behind me, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," Geralt says, and Ewa turns around and glares up at him.

"Witchers," she spits, "knew you were trouble the second I set eyes on you."

"You're a very perceptive woman," he says mildly, and Ewa's eyes narrow. Then she turns back to Jaskier.

"Well, it's your funeral, dearie, but don't come crying to me when it all falls apart." She glares at Geralt once more, and the ' _Again_ ' goes unsaid but not unheard. Then she breezes out of the room and out into the courtyard, shouting at someone.

Jaskier huffs a laugh. "She _really_ doesn't like you."

"One could get that impression." He looks around the kitchen. Cupboards are pulled open, and there's a satchel on the table before Jaskier, half-full. "What's going on?"

"We're packing up the house," Jaskier says quietly, and Geralt's heart thumps heavily against his ribs.

"Are you..."

Jaskier smiles.

* * *

They leave the next day. Closing up a household takes more work than Geralt thought, and Jaskier takes quite some time figuring out what he wants to take and what can stay behind.

Filavandrel's lute hangs on a hook in Jaskier's bedroom. There's dust on the tuning pegs.

"You should take it," Geralt says quietly as Jaskier holds up two doublets, trying to decide which one he likes better.

"Take what?"

"The lute." He turns around, and Jaskier's mouth is a flat line, his whole expression pinched.

"I don't play any more," he says flatly, picks one doublet apparently at random and tosses it on the bed, turning back to put the other one back into the wardrobe.

"You could teach Ciri how to play," Geralt says softly. He's pretty sure Ciri has little to no interest in learning how to play the lute, but it's worth a try.

His attempt is as transparent as a windowpane, but finally Jaskier smiles gently.

The lute is cleaned up and goes into its case, and some tension in Geralt's chest dissipates.

Actually leaving turns into quite the affair. Besides Ewa, there is also a maid who does Jaskier's laundry, a pimply girl of sixteen with two long braids. Geralt is pretty sure that, if looks could kill, he'd be dead twice over with the way Ewa glares at him. Jaskier embraces her with a fond smile.

"I'm sure I'll be back some time," he says, "you know you can't keep me away from Oxenfurt too long. Give my love to Stefan, will you? He needs to concentrate on his studies."

"Oh, I'll make sure he does," Ewa says. Her eyes are shining with tears she's unwilling to shed, Geralt thinks. "You take care of yourself, Master Julian."

Jaskier kisses the top of her head, and then they're off.

Jaskier has his own horse now, a white gelding named Pegasus, and Geralt cocks an eyebrow at the name. "Oh, shut it, he was already called that."

"Sure he was."

Jaskier throws his half-eaten apple at his back, and Geralt hides his grin.

It's already late in the year, late summer turning into autumn, and they decide to head in the general direction of Kaer Morhen. They have time, and with the troubles in the south, going through Redania is the safest bet. Geralt on his own would probably be fine taking the longer route through Temeria - or what's left of it - but he doesn't want to risk it.

It's frighteningly easy to fall back into their old rhythm, for the most part, but the big difference is egregious: Jaskier is quiet.

He talks, sure, but not as much as he used to, less random chatter about an interesting bird he saw or an odd flower. Most glaring of all is the lack of music. The lute stays in its case, tied to Pegasus' saddle. It makes the guilt come back, settle dark and bitter in Geralt's stomach.

On the positive side, Jaskier keeps kissing him. Just gentle pecks of his lips, usually, in the morning or before he goes to curl up in his bedroll, but every single one leaves Geralt warm, and wanting more.

Money is, surprisingly, not as tight as Geralt had expected, without Jaskier performing. Instead, the man winks at him and points at a little chest strapped to the saddle that clinks tellingly when Jaskier shakes it. "I should put my allowance to good use, shouldn't I?"

About a month into the journey, Geralt takes a contract for a harpy nest near a small village that can barely afford to pay him. It should be an easy contract, and it is, for the most part, until one of them catches him in the neck with its claws. There's blood pouring into his armour and his vision is getting fuzzy at the edges by the time he manages to kill the last harpy, and he barely manages to heave himself onto Roach. He passes out before he reaches the campsite.

When he comes to again, he's on a bedroll beside a fire. He feels weak, and the fight comes back to him slowly, like he's wading through a bog.

He can taste Swallow on his tongue, and sighs. _Jaskier_.

Geralt tries to turn his head and immediately stops with a hiss as pain flares bright and hot in his neck. Jaskier is above him in a blink, eyes wide and concerned.

"Still with us, then," he asks softly, and Geralt hums. Even that hurts. Jaskier strokes a hand over his forehead. "Hush, you need to rest. That was a nasty gash." He starts to move away, but Geralt can't bear the thought. He grabs the other's hand, and Jaskier stills, looks down at Geralt's hand wrapped around his. "Want me to stay? Alright."

He lies down next to Geralt, then, after a moment's hesitation, curls into his side. Geralt sighs, and lets the tension drain out of him, and soon he's asleep.

He's awoken by Roach snorting in his face at the crack of dawn, and he shoos her away with a groan. "Fucking hell, Roach," and he tries to roll over onto his side but is stopped by a body next to him.

Jaskier is still where he laid down in the night. In his sleep, Geralt must have wound an arm around him, given that the bard is now nestled into his side, face pillowed on one hand. His lips are slightly parted, his breathing soft and even, and Geralt carefully turns his head and looks up at the slowly lightening sky, his heart thumping against his ribs.

When Jaskier wakes, he does so slowly, turning his head to look up at Geralt with bleary eyes. He's still sleep-soft, with a crease on his forehead where he'd pressed it against a fold in Geralt's shirt. "G'mornin'," he mumbles, then rubs at his eyes. "How's the neck?"

"Better." Talking hurts, slightly, muscles protesting, but he's had worse. So much worse.

Jaskier hums, then sits up and stretches, arms high above his head. "I could murder someone for some tea. Alas." He looks back at him over his shoulder. "Are you hungry?"

Geralt watches the long line of Jaskier's throat, the way his chemise falls open as he twists around. "Hm," he says.

Jaskier looks back at him in silence for a moment, and Geralt can hear how his heartbeat picks up a little. "Geralt," he says, then carefully lays back down again.

He kisses him, carefully, mindful of his injury.

Geralt doesn't want careful.

He slides his hand into Jaskier's hair and opens his mouth, and Jaskier makes a low, needy sound and licks inside.

 _Fuck_.

The kiss quickly escalates, Jaskier climbing on top of him, straddling his hips, and Geralt growls into his mouth. "Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, and Jaskier rolls his hips with a little gasp.

"We shouldn't," he says between kisses, and Geralt tightens his hold on his hair.

"Why not?"

Jaskier doesn't answer for a long time. He's too busy kissing Geralt, rubbing himself against him with soft little gasps, and Geralt lets his free hand wander, over Jaskier's back and thighs, down to cup his arse. He squeezes, and Jaskier groans. "Geralt, I-"

"What do you want?"

_Tell me, and I'll give it to you, no matter what it is._

The thought is like lightning down his spine, and he's half afraid it might spill out of him.

Jaskier hides his face against the uninjured side of Geralt's throat and stills, panting. He's trembling and flushed, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse with his desire. "Gods, I want to hate this, Geralt, I want to hate _you_ for what you did, but I can't, I'm _weak_ , I've wanted you for so long, I-"

"Then take what you need," he rasps, and Jaskier makes a soft, broken sound.

It's a little awkward, and uncoordinated, Jaskier rubbing himself against him, both of them hard, and he muffles his noises against Geralt's chest. Geralt just holds him, fingers on his hips, and lets Jaskier take his pleasure. He's nearly painfully hard himself, but just listening to the half bitten off moans spilling from Jaskier's lips and feeling him against him is enough for now.

"Geralt," Jaskier gasps, his fingers twisted into the fabric of Geralt's shirt, "please, I- _More_ ," he groans, and Geralt echoes the sound.

"Fuck, Jask, sit up." He does, shaking, and Geralt reaches down and unbuttons his trousers. Jaskier's cock is hot and leaking, and when Geralt wraps his hand around it, Jaskier makes a high, keening noise.

" _Geralt_ ," he says, voice cracking, and Geralt strokes him, slowly, his thumb spreading the wetness to make the glide easier.

Jaskier keeps rolling his hips against Geralt's, fucking into his hand, and Geralt can't believe how beautiful he is. His ass is pressed firmly over Geralt's cock and when Jaskier stiffens and spills all over Geralt's fist and stomach, he groans and comes in his trousers like a green boy.

"Gods," Jaskier gasps as he rolls off of Geralt, laying down in the crook of his arm again.

"Good?" Geralt nuzzles Jaskier's hair, and the other laughs breathlessly.

It gets colder the further east they travel, and soon Jaskier insists on staying in inns whenever the opportunity arises. "I'm not twenty any more, Geralt, my joints don't like sleeping on the ground."

Inns mean beds, and beds mean having Jaskier in his arms in nothing but his chemise and braies, and so Geralt rarely objects.

They fuck for the first time in an inn, about two weeks after the harpy incident. He opens Jaskier up with tongue and fingers, until the other is all but begging for it, and when he pushes into Jaskier, it's slow and gentle and desperate. Geralt doesn't know how to handle the emotions in his chest. Jaskier clings to him, urges him on with gentle words and gentle hands, and it's all too much and not nearly enough.

They take a detour to Gulet after Geralt hears of a bruxa in the area. Jaskier frets even more than usual, knowing how dangerous bruxae can be, but he comes along anyway.

"You're going to go either way, might as well save my breath," he grumbles, and Geralt tugs him close and kisses him.

The bruxa is brutal, and Geralt barely manages to kill her. After, Jaskier pulls him into bed before the Black Blood is even out of his system.

Winter hits hard and early as they turn north towards Kaedwen, and when they finally reach the Gwenllech, the path up to Kaer Morhen is just barely open. There is more than one situation where Geralt can feel his heart beating heavily in his chest, when one of the horses stumbles, or when they have to dismount and walk on on foot. By the time they finally cross the moat, he is full of nervous energy, grateful for the knowledge that Jaskier is safe now.

Jaskier is in his home, and that's all that matters.

They are greeted by Vesemir, the old wolf cocking an eyebrow at Geralt who fights the childish impulse to duck his head.

"So you're the bard?"

Something flashes across Jaskier's face, and his smile is strained. "Former bard, I'm afraid. I teach, these days."

"Hm," says Vesemir, and then Ciri races around the corner, barreling straight into Geralt.

"You're back," she cries, hugging him tightly, and Geralt feels himself relax.

"I'm back, cub, and I brought someone." Jaskier bows with a flourish, Ciri laughs, and things feel right.

Lambert jogs around the corner a moment later, expression thunderous, and Ciri ducks behind Geralt. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

"I just wanted to say hello," she mumbles, and it's almost like Lambert only now realises that Geralt and Jaskier are right there.

"Well, I'll be damned. That the bard then?"

Again, something flashes across Jaskier's face. Geralt is pretty certain it's pain. "Jaskier, at your service," he says anyway, with another bow - with less flourish than for Ciri, but still - and Lambert guffaws.

"Look at that. Such pretty manners."

"Lambert," Vesemir says quietly, and the young Wolf rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm Lambert. Good to finally meet you," and the look he sends Geralt's way is not subtle at all. Geralt rolls his eyes and starts for the stable. "Eskel's in there," Lambert yells after them. "We got goats now!"

"Goats?"

"Yeah, don't ask." He rounds on Ciri, who fiddles with the hem of her jerkin, trying to look inconspicuous. "And you, back to work. Training's not done."

Geralt and Jaskier leave them to it, leading the horses into the stable. As Lambert said, Eskel is there, bent over the door of one stall. He looks up as they approach, then smiles knowingly.

"Took you long enough, wolf," he says, and pulls Geralt into an embrace. The last tension drains from his limbs at that. He's home, finally.

"We're here now," he says as Eskel steps back, and the dark haired Witcher looks over at Jaskier.

"That you are."

"I hear I have you to thank for talking some sense into him," Jaskier says softly, and Eskel smiles.

"Sometimes you don't see the forest for the trees, right? Change of perspective can be helpful."

Jaskier laughs, and then he steps forward and embraces Eskel. Eskel looks stunned, then slightly panicked as he looks over at Geralt, who just smiles.

"Better get used to that," he says, "Jaskier's not familiar with the concept of personal space."

"Says the person who punched me ten minutes after meeting me," Jaskier says mildly after he lets go of Eskel. Geralt grins at him.

"And why's that?"

"Because you're a brute without manners," Jaskier replies, also grinning now, and Eskel chuckles.

Geralt asks about the goats as they're unsaddling the horses, and Eskel hedges for a moment, then tells him about the nanny goat and her kid he came upon on the way back, obviously not wild ones. "They would've been eaten within days, and having goat milk will be nice," he says, and Geralt is sure that if he could, Eskel would be blushing furiously.

Jaskier and Ciri get on like a house on fire, which isn't all that surprising, and Jaskier offers to take on some of her teaching, "The not so lethal parts of being a princess, I suppose, although a well-phrased insult can be almost as deadly as a sword," he says with a wink, and Ciri giggles.

"What about music," Lambert says around a mouthful of mutton, and Jaskier stiffens. Geralt's hand tightens in his lap and he glares at Lambert, who just shrugs.

"If you'd be interested in that," Jaskier says to Ciri, who thinks about it for a moment.

"I don't know if I'd be any good at it," she says at length, "but I'd like to try," and Jaskier gives her a smile that looks a little strained.

"I only have my lute and it might be a bit big for you, but that shan't stop us, shall it?" She giggles again and shakes her head, and Jaskier pats her shoulder as he gets up.

Geralt sits very still, half afraid that moving might break the spell that means Jaskier will pick up his lute again. When he returns, instrument in hand, the hall is eerily quiet. Even the fire seems to not crackle quite as loudly any more.

"It's not an easy instrument to play," Jaskier says as he sits down again, straddling the bench and facing Ciri, "but you have long fingers and seem dexterous enough. Let me show you a simple chord, and then you can try, if you want."

Ciri fidgets for a second, looking uncertainly at Geralt, then Vesemir, before she looks back at Jaskier. "Could you... would you play something first? It's just, I haven't heard music in so long."

Again, Jaskier stiffens. Geralt can hear his heart beat faster. "I..."

"Go on, lad," Vesemir says gently. "It's been a very long time since these old stones have rung with music, and I couldn't think of anyone better suited to bring it back here."

Jaskier sits ramrod straight, his shoulders tight, and Geralt reaches for him when the man sighs. "Alright, why not."

Geralt holds his breath.

Jaskier spends a few moments tuning the lute, and then takes a shuddering breath. "I'm a little out of practice, so I apologise in advance," and he starts playing.

It's _The Stars Above the Path_ , and all the Witchers go very still, even Lambert, who gapes at Jaskier in surprise. Vesemir closes his eyes to listen, and Eskel clasps his hands on the table before him, watching Jaskier with something like awe.

Geralt... Geralt doesn't know what he feels, listening. He's heard the song before, many times, but it has never hit him quite this hard. The life of a Witcher is a lonely one, Jaskier sings, with nothing but the stars to keep them company, and listening to it here, in the great hall of Kaer Morhen that echoes with memories, it rings differently.

When the song ends, Ciri is blinking back tears, and Lambert rises up from the bench and leaves without a word.

Jaskier chuckles. "That bad, huh?"

Geralt reaches out, winds an arm around him and pulls him against his chest, buries his nose in his neck. Jaskier gasps and almost drops his lute.

"Quite the opposite, lad," Vesemir says, then also rises and excuses himself. Geralt can't imagine what he must feel like.

"That was _beautiful_ ," Ciri says, and Jaskier smiles at her.

"Would you like to try?"

Eskel clears his throat. Geralt can tell he's trying not to show how affected he is by the song. "Maybe tomorrow, I think it's time for bed." Ciri yawns, as if being told reminds her body of its fatigue after a day of training, and Eskel smiles. "Don't forget to brush your hair, girl, I'm not going to help you with untangling it again."

Ciri grumbles something as she gets to her feet, then walks around to give Geralt a hug. "I'm glad you're back," she says, then adds, "and I'm glad you came, Jaskier."

Eskel throws them out of the hall a short while later, even though Jaskier offers to help with cleaning up the table. "You must be exhausted, the Killer is nothing to scoff at. Go, off to bed with you," and Jaskier acquiesces.

Upstairs, Geralt pulls him into bed, just holding him close, and Jaskier kisses his temple and lets himself be held.

It still feels like a dream, in a way. Having Jaskier with him, here in Kaer Morhen... It's like a balm to an ache he wasn't even aware of.

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you," Jaskier says, sliding gentle fingers through his hair, and Geralt holds him a little tighter.

"For what?"

"For being the stubborn son of a bitch that you are."

As far as compliments go, it's a peculiar one, but Geralt will take it.

As long as it comes from Jaskier, he will take anything the other gives him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/formerly_as_g?s=09)!


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